


Kissed by fire.

by HumptyDumpty



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 21:49:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumptyDumpty/pseuds/HumptyDumpty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She felt a lump in her throat at the mention of those two. “I-It’s not…” She uttered, trying to crack a smile. Everyone was watching. Judging. The regal seat closer and closer. Sansa bit her lip and feigned self-assurance. She was a Stark, and her winter was already there. “Kissed by fire,” she repeated, “means a person with red hair in another culture. My caregiver told me.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kissed by fire.

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't get rid of my SanSan feels at all, and maybe this is a bit a weird idea I had, but I must admit I'm satisfied by how it turned out. Just a little, okay?  
> Ah! It's totally not nfsw, not even close to it. Don't you worry.

They arrived in the early afternoon. The Queen would be hosting a ball later in the evening, said the handmaids before hurrying her to bathe. Sansa was surprised not to have been told before; but then again, she thought, there was nothing definite during a war. Joffrey’s abrupt acts of revenge on her brother, or rather on the girl herself, were a proof of the nonexistent peace and quiet she could find in the court. Everyday was an adventure, so to speak. Oh, if Arya had known— Arya liked adventures. Arya was indomitable enough to fight all of that. But Arya wasn’t there, and she was.

Sansa endured. As the servants rubbed scented oils on her skin, their hands trying to be as delicate as possible when touching the bruises left from being beaten up almost everyday; she let them wash, dry and style her hair. She chose the dress which would cover the most skin while also making her look prettiest. Pretty enough to have Joffrey treat her kindly, she would have once hoped, but now she knew better than that.

Her beauty did mean something to Joffrey. Otherwise, and recalling it made her shiver with fear, he wouldn’t have wanted to put a baby into her as the boy’d told her. And she’d noticed the way those other men looked at her body whenever they were close enough to feel her growing womanhood, hitting Sansa at Joff’s every whim and command. That disgusting spark of hunger in their gaze— everyone’s except Mandon Moore’s. And the Hound’s.

The aquamarine fabric shone of a bright shade of blue when she stepped beside the window to see a huge crowd of knights and ladies gathered in the castle grounds. Tiny and far away. Like ants. Her heart was beating, and yet not because of excitement. If only she could’ve stepped on them. Like ants. That place had done something to her, and she couldn’t help but wonder exactly when she’s started to change. Turning to the mirror and admiring her figure reflected into it, she almost burst into tears. Had she been alone, she probably would have.

Albeit surrounded by those other girls, wasn’t she alone, though? Day, night, in her sleep. Oh, nothing could possibly be lonelier than her sleep, if not realizing she was beginning to wake.

As if to save her from despair, someone opened the door. “They sent me to fetch you, little bird.” The Hound grunted. “And the King’s not very patient tonight. A-“, Sansa didn’t even wait for him to finish before stepping forward and out of the room, Sandor Clegane behind her. “Not in a good mood today, are we?” The man sneered. She still didn’t reply. She didn’t want to talk, or to go to the ball. She could’ve lied about feeling ill and remain in the room, and yet either insomnia or nightmares awaited her. In both cases, the Lannisters did. There were no means of escape. She’d once read of a princess whose deep slumber had lasted a thousand cold seasons, until her prince had finally found her in a tower of iced roses, giving her new birth with a summer’s kiss. But she was a wolf, and wolves do not hibernate, just like Loras Tyrell had long stopped appearing in her dreams, his figure fading more and more everyday, blurred.

“Heh. Lion got your tongue. You better find it and dry your cute little cheeks if you don’t want anything bad to happen to you.” He rasped in a low tone from beside her.

She flinched. Sansa hadn’t realized her eyes were wetting, silently calling out for help. Whose? He would’ve laughed, that husky laughter of his, and made fun of whatever belief she held dear.

And she knew, although she would never admit it to the man, that he was partially correct. She couldn’t run nor hide. She could wait for someone to rescue her, of course someone would, someday! but not that one. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps the following week. Meanwhile she had to bear everything. She prayed the seven gods, and the Maiden, and the Warrior. To turn her manners into the strongest shield.

“Thank you.” The girl whispered in the firmest voice she could manage, quickly composing herself. An hesitant hint of frosty courtesy accompanied her words like the familar breeze of Winterfell. She didn’t look at him, however she could feel his eyes on her. Something about his tone had been kinder than usual— not that he could ever be called kind. Their conversations always led to her utmost frustration, and he wasn’t particularly loved by anyone at King’s Landing, she’d heard. But, after all, none of the bruises on her body belonged to him. She felt as though she should’ve been more scared of his brother, Gregor.

Her mind went back to the joust. To what she still considered the most wonderful event in her life, and how abrupty it had come to an end. At the time when she used to love Joffrey, how could she?, and when the Hound had revealed her the past behind his appaling burn scars, forcing the girl to look close. Yes, something about her was different now, certainly. Her old self was gone for good. So was her affection for her betrothed and for the Queen, so was King Robert, so was Arya, septa Mordane, her father, Jeyne Poole…

her eyes rose to glimpse at Clegane. The fury in his grey orbs was softened by the dim light of the torches. His aura was less vicious, even, and his jaw wasn’t twitching restlessly. If the person she was seeing were the real him, she wouldn’t be afraid anymore.

Full of shame for doing something so unladylike as lingering on a man in secret, she ceased to stare.

Her uneasiness increased once they entered the dance hall. Most guests’ attention was on her. Probably gossiping about her family, she was sure. Sansa wanted to scream. Only the Hound beside her, for some inexplicable and absurd reason, gave her a slight sense of protection. Two blondes of about her age were chattering away, occasionally glancing at Sansa. She saw one of them, flashy in some green and golden satin, point at her hair as she passed by. “Kissed by fire”, she muttered. Back at home, Old Nan had told her that the wildlings would have called her so. Sansa had stopped even thinking about her stories since the late King Robert’s arrival. Now things had changed too much not to have regrets. She should’ve loved her house, and her family, and who’d taken care of her. She should’ve loved them a thousand times more. And yet she still didn’t hate the court— rather than the roles, the people who had them were wrong. Fakes. Nothing but glistery, ungolden fakes.

“Sorry that my face bothers you.” Diverting the redhead from her anguish again, the Hound suddenly mocked her, irritation in his tone. He’d been focused only on her the whole time, she understood, surprised. “Next time you’ll be escorted by a knight. Ser Trant, or Blount. I bet you’ll fucking enjoy them.”

She felt a lump in her throat at the mention of those two. “I-It’s not…” She uttered, trying to crack a smile. Everyone was watching. Judging. The regal seat closer and closer. Sansa bit her lip and feigned self-assurance. She was a Stark, and her winter was already there. “Kissed by fire,” she repeated, “means a person with red hair in another culture. My caregiver told me.”

The reply seemed to satisfy him. He smiled, too, somewhat grinning, and his left hand moved as if to reach the devastated side of his face. Didn’t even go halfway. “Kissed by fire…” his hoarse voice echoed. Bitterly. Everything about him gave a feeling of bitterness. “We make a perfect couple, then.”


End file.
